


Going Nowhere

by misaffection



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misaffection/pseuds/misaffection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Camille heard Richard's ill, she flew back from France to be at his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> Episode tag.
> 
> The book Camille reads is "The Luck of the Bodkins" by PG Wodehouse.

Camille was utterly furious. She’d dropped everything after maman had rung with the news Richard had tropical fever, then had spent the very long flight worrying herself sick. But not only had he insulted her mother’s cooking, but he’d gone and solved a damn murder. She was going to kill him for frightening her half to death.

She stalked into the station, him at her heels and silently accepting her outraged tirade. For some reason that just made her even angrier. She spun on her heel to dress him down further, but the words died on her tongue. He sagged against the door frame, grey-skinned and clammy.

“You idiot.” She crossed the room and felt his forehead. “Were you not told to rest?”

“I rested. In bed. Ask Dwayne and Fidel.”

“Hm, is this the same Dwayne and Fidel that fed you information on a murder case?” Camille shook her head. “I do not think they’re reliable witnesses, Richard.”

He blinked owlishly. She noted how his eyes were too bright, almost glassy. He’d done too much, too soon, and the fever had returned. The last of her anger faded in the face of her concern for him.

“Let me take you home. The boys can tidy up the ends.”

“I’m fine.”

Richard made to step around her, only to collapse as his legs gave out. Camille swore and knelt beside him. She pulled off his ridiculous jacket and then loosened the knot of his tie. “Yes, obviously,” she sniped at him and undid the top button of his shirt. He put down a hand. She put hers firmly on his chest. “Do not even _think_ about it. I’m going to get some water and you are not going to move. _Oui_?”

“Okay.”

The fact he agreed so easily worried her more than his collapse. She grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge and then helped him sit. He drank greedily, his breaths between swallows sharp. Camille took his left wrist and felt the pulse. It was thin and rapid.

“I need to get you home and call the doctor again.” He frowned at that and she swatted his shoulder. “You are very sick! You should have stayed in bed.”

“If I’d done that, an innocent man would have been arrested.”

“It happens, Richard. We’d have sorted it out.”

“By which time Mark Lightfoot would have been far, far away.”

She sighed, aware that he was right. But at what cost? Tropical fever _killed_ people. Such deaths were rare, but still. “It wasn’t worth making yourself so sick over,” she scolded.

“I’m sorry.” He leaned against her, trembling like a newborn kitten. “And I’m glad that you’re back.”

Camille ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, then pulled him closer. As much as he infuriated her, she cared a great deal about him and couldn’t help the wave of affection. But she forced the bottle to his lips again, only satisfied once he’d drunk half of it.

“All right, let’s get you up and home.”

It took a conservative effort to get him off the floor, out the station and into the Land Rover, but Camille managed it. She rang Dwayne on her mobile and filled him in, then turned the engine over and headed towards the bungalow.

Richard say nothing during the journey, though she spared enough glances to assure herself he didn’t lose consciousness at any point. He undoubtedly felt sorry for himself and, while she could manage a little sympathy, she rather thought he deserved feeling terrible considering what he’d put her through.

Inside the bungalow, she ignored his weak protests to strip off his shirt. She’d been curious for a while and now she had him half naked, was pleased enough with what she saw. However, it probably wasn’t very proper to ogle a man when he was sick, so she bundled him to bed and called the doctor.

Doctor Mathieu managed the sort of scolding only a trained medical person could – calm and quiet, but leaving Richard in no doubt as to the risks he’d taken. “And to worry Camille so...” The woman tutted. “If you can’t consider yourself, you should at least consider those that care about you.”

“Will he be okay?” Camille asked.

“If he rests until he is fully recovered, he’ll be fine.”

Relief flooded her. “Great. Thank you, Doctor.”

The woman grasped Camille’s hand and squeezed, then left. The sound of her car faded into the distance. Camille turned back to find Richard watching her, his expression contrite.

“I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble,” he murmured, plucking at the sheet covering him. “You don’t need to stay.”

She sighed and dropped to sit on the side of the bed, ignoring his quick, nervous glance. “You have a strange way of apologising, Richard Poole.”

He nodded. “Not very good at that.”

“Nor staying in bed and resting,” she pointed out, though her tone was light. She patted his hand fondly. “Should I handcuff you this time?”

Richard’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “I… err… don’t think that’s necessary, Camille,” he stuttered and she burst out laughing.

“Well, don’t forget that I can.” She leaned forward then and pressed a kiss to his hot, damp forehead. “Now settle down and go to sleep.”

He opened his mouth, but if he’d planned on arguing, he was beaten by a yawn. Sagging back against the mound of pillows, he closed his eyes on a defeated sigh. Camille smiled and then got up. She turned off his phone, then opened the doors to the veranda – fresh air would do him as much good as resting.

The sun was low, the heat of the day slipping into the cool of the evening. Something small and green darted past her and she chuckled as the lizard climbed up a leg to sit on Richard’s desk. She knew that he cared for the creature, though he’d made no attempt to capture it. He seemed to prefer it having its freedom; a decision she couldn’t help but be touched by.

“Camille?”

She turned from the view and went back to his bed. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“I woke and… I thought you’d… gone.”

Her heart clenched at the lost look. Taking his hand in hers, she spoke in a firm but gentle tone. “Go back to sleep, Richard. I promise that I’m staying right here. I’m going _nowhere_.”

He smiled at that and his fingers tightened on hers. She watched as he settled. Sleep claimed him rapidly, his body exhausted from fighting the fever and his doing too much. Once his breathing had slowed and he was deeply asleep, Camille bent and kissed his cheek.

“You frightened me half to death,” she confessed then, secure in the knowledge he couldn’t hear her. “Because as impossible and rude as you are, you’re… important to me Richard. Please don’t scare me like this again.”

He murmured in his sleep and then rolled onto his side. She tousled his hair and then raided his small library of books before settling in his favourite chair. She had no plan on leaving until he was better, no matter how irritating he got. She opened the book and began to read.

_“Into the face of the young man who sat on the terrace of the Hotel Magnifique at Cannes there had crept a look of furtive shame, the shifty, hangdog look which announces that an Englishman is about to talk French.”_


End file.
